Rain, all the long night rain, 
and in the morning clear drops again 
fall from the cap of the tall oak post, 
course down the painted Pub Food sign 
into the uncharitable day.

The back door opens and would close 
quickly of itself, but his backside 
controls the force of the spring 
as he hugs to himself the cardboard box 
heaped with the gossip of empties.

His face a perpetual tug-of-war 
between grimace of concentration 
and a disconcerting grin; his nose 
and mouth, like the lachrymose sign, 
cannot contain their moisture.

Skirting the pool he could walk through 
if he knew it's shallowness, the grin 
pulls him to the bottle bank, 
slides the chattering load down 
his belly to his feet and victory.

He selects, with idiotic care, 
first clear, then green, then brown, 
holds each bottle high, and it's turn 
with his one good hand, a keeper 
feeding fish to dolphins.

Each bottle shares its poems with him: 
a deal over dinner last night, 
rowdy twentyfirst in half-rhymed verse, 
arrangement to sleep in another man’s bed; 
anniversary with only the date to celebrate.

The landlord will give him breakfast 
when he's done. Between the grimace 
and grin he'll keep the poems secrets. 
He is a man of trust, honourable, 
and honoured in his society.